Page 2 of Three Widows

Orla had tried so hard to like Éilis, but they were too similar to become real friends. Éilis was no-nonsense, told it like it was. So did Orla. Éilis was the founding member of the Life After Loss group, having set it up on Facebook originally. Her husband, Oisín, was now three years dead, and she was still struggling with balancing their two children and work. Orla knew she had a good babysitter, so why the Mother of Sorrows face all the time? But she herself was neither a mother nor a widow, so how could she have any idea what Éilis was going through?

‘Still no sign of Jennifer?’ she asked, making conversation about the other member of the group.

‘Not a peep,’ Éilis said. ‘I hope she’s okay. It’s a month now.’

‘Did you call her?’

‘Numerous times. Her phone seems to be off.’

‘We don’t want to pressurise her,’ Helena said, swiping her unruly curls out of her eyes before sipping her drink. From experience, Orla knew that Helena was trying hard to pace herself with alcohol, and life in general.

‘I suppose we need to give her space,’ she said.

‘I remember when Damien died, she went off the rails for a while,’ Helena said, putting down her glass, ‘Losing a husband will do that to you. She will be back to us. She just needs time to process it all.’

‘I don’t like talking about people who aren’t here,’ Éilis said, pouting. She hurriedly replaced it with a smile. ‘It’s good you could make it tonight, Orla. Are you okay for the weekend?’

‘The weekend?’ Orla looked from one to the other, raising an eyebrow. ‘Oh, you mean Tyler. Yes, actually I’m very okay about it.’

‘I feel for you. At least we have closure, our husbands being dead and all,’ Éilis said. Lowering her voice, she added, ‘It must be awful for you, not knowing…’

‘I’m getting used to it.’ Dropping her eyes, Orla stared at her nails. ‘It’s the loneliness that gets me, with just the four walls for company.’ She hoped her expression projected sorrow, because she actually enjoyed the quiet house.

‘That’s so sad.’ Éilis smoothed her dark hair behind her ear, flashing the largest emerald Orla had ever seen. It matched her clothes. Loud and colourful. All for a Thursday night in Fallon’s?

‘How long is it again since your husbands died?’ Orla directed her question to both women.

Éilis was first to speak. ‘Three years since my Oisín, and Helena, your Gerald, when was it?’

‘Oh, it must be three, no, four years now. Seems like yesterday.’

Orla waited for tears, but there were none. There never were with Helena. Jennifer, though, she was like a burst water balloon. Cried over everything. Her dead husband; her job; a toasted sandwich with the wrong cheese. It never took much for her to switch on the tears.

‘Like I’ve said numerous times, I’m so sorry for you both.’ Orla eyed her gin without taking up the glass. ‘Do you think we should look for new members? Other women who have lost their husbands.’ Seeing the look of horror flash across Éilis’s face, she added quickly, ‘I don’t mean that we kill off husbands so we have more widows…’ What was she trying to say?

Éilis clapped her hands and laughed. ‘You’re hilarious. This group is for women who understand what it is to lose someone, be it through death, separation, divorce. Not lost in that they can’t find them. Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you lost yours like—’

‘It’s fine. It’s a clever joke.’ Orla grimaced.

‘I wasn’t making a joke of your situation. I’ll shut up before I put my foot in it again.’ Éilis delicately sipped her drink, as if it might be laced with poison.

Helena lashed into her pint of Guinness, seemingly at a loss for words. A pint! Where is your class? Orla wondered. She was dressed in dark navy jeans with a black satin blouse cut low. No bra, but she probably wore tapes on her generous curves. And her hair was haloed by those magnificent auburn curls. She must have the new Dyson curler.

‘Do you think we should organise an outing?’ Orla asked. ‘Like the day we went to the zoo. Maybe a trip to the Hugh Lane gallery in Dublin?’ She knew Éilis would like that. Helena? Not so much.

‘I don’t think so,’ Éilis said with a blush when Helena’s jaw hung open. ‘It was a bit of a struggle at the zoo last time, with Roman and Becky.’

‘Of course. Sorry.’ Jesus, it was like being at a wake for your worst enemy.

Éilis regained her equilibrium, her green eyes flashing. ‘I know they upset you that time, Orla. The kids. I don’t want it to happen again.’

‘They didn’t upset me. I’m just not used to being around little ones. I’m more of a cat person.’

‘Oh, you never mentioned you had a cat,’ Helena said. ‘What’s it called?’

Orla had no cat. Could she say she called it Pussy, or would that be a step too far? ‘George is a ginger, like Garfield.’

‘My Noah loves Garfield. Didn’t I tell you we have a dog? Mutt. Gerald, my husband… late husband…’ a sorrowful droop of Helena’s eyelids made Orla want to throw up, ‘Gerald named him.’

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